


In Reginensi atrio

by Elasmo



Category: The Idylls of the Queen - Phyllis Ann Karr
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17051597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elasmo/pseuds/Elasmo
Summary: I pray you, my masters, be merry





	In Reginensi atrio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayhap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayhap/gifts).



> Wolcum Yule!

The Queen said she would arrange the apples herself. Thus was I in the cellars, supervising the unearthing of fruit _myself_ , determined there be no repeat of last year’s trials, or if any accusations of poisoning were to be made, they would fall on my own head. Midwinter yielded yet a good supply and we were only three cellars deep before Gouvernail held a hefty sack for the Queen’s choice.

“Your cook is caterwauling about infernal pork,” said a voice at the portal behind us, as I dusted my hands in satisfaction and gestured to Coupnez to rebury the straw. Mordred leaned against open arch, a pilfered apple in hand already marred by a giant bite, the churl. Gouvernail looked wary. The old squire stood between us with the sack clutched awkwardly in two hands. I said nothing, because I am of easy disposition this yule and not quick to temper.

“Chloda tells me that with grave certainty, the turns of the boar’s entrails bear an ill omen,” I said, waving it off as if nonsense. “It’s a campaign to provide only the head to the feast, reserving the greater part of the beast for her own use.” It is a campaign my paranoia will likely deliver to her. My cook knows me well.

I gestured to Gouvernail and Coupnez to follow me and proceeded to the passage that Mordred so helpfully blocked.

“The beast taken by Lancelot’s own hand?” he asked innocently. His right eye was purpling nicely and a bandage wrapped his left hand. He had bestirred himself for the jousting then. I tamped down my jealousy. Too many duties called for me to go gadding about seeking fame on the field. I scowled at him and shoved past.

“Taken first by the King’s own spear before Sir Knight rushed to the killing blow.” I said. We had all been there for the hunt and I wouldn’t be baited. “What are you doing here Mordred?”

“Why, giving witness to your honor and the good faith of the Queen, Sir Kay,” he said, showing me his toothy grin. Earnest mockery or mockery in earnest. You never could tell with the man.

Mordred fell in with my little troop as we processed out of the cellars, through the cacophony of the kitchens and the great hall bustling with feast day preparation: myself, Gouvernail with his bag, Coupnez the page leading the way with a great silver bowl in arms, and Mordred, a dark cloud of a rearguard escort. Every fool loitering at large in Camelot was gawking in the passageways.

“Is this your moment of redemption then, lad?” Mordred asked the child as we ascended the stair over the courtyard. Coupnez’s neck reddened. Some might say it is poor luck to enlist the page who unwittingly bore poison to the Queen’s table in this very bowl, not a year ago, but I had never cared for wagging tongues.

“He has the wisdom of 9 years now and won’t be malingering in dark antechambers to feed his gob,” I said. Coupnez prudently held to sullen silence as Mordred laughed his dark velvety laugh. We marched along to the Queen’s chamber, coming to parade rest as the guardsman knocked at the door.

I had thought to ingratiate myself with the gentlewomen of the chamber and linger there until the Queen had selected and arranged the fruit as it pleased her, asking a yuletide gift of a game of chess that I might stay until feast time. My staff may be wily and full of schemes, but I have their confidence as they have mine. The kitchen could well proceed with preparations under the steady eye of Gouvernail.

But when the door opened, it was not Dame Elyzabel but Lancelot stood there in his undertunic, gazing at us down his arrogant nose. Under his proud elbow I spied her Grace’s gown on a dressing stand before the fire, but her cousin and ladies were nowhere in view. The inner chamber was shut fast.

“Ah. Kay. You may leave the apples at the table,” he said, as if I were any servant to be ordered about. My blood rose.

“Lancelot, always the man on the spot,” Mordred said.

“Have you no care for your Queen’s reputation!” I shouted.

“As much as you, good Kay,” Mordred murmured, because he is a traitorous wretch.

“I am not a source of gossip over the Queen’s good name,” I continued hotly. In the red periphery of my vision, Mordred raised his eyebrows at this obvious falsehood, but I wouldn’t be deterred. Past accusations against me were obvious politicking whereas all the court knew of Guenevere’s great love affair with the King’s best knight. Her jealously of late over Lancelot’s dalliance with Lady Elayne had stirred the gossip pot well. Only the King managed to maintain his ignorance, but for how long? They played with fire meeting under his very nose, and surely it was the Queen who would burn if they put Arthur in the position where he must know of their adultery. Coupnez ducked past me to follow Lancelot to the table, but Gouvernail had the sense to wait in the hall.

“Step out, and we will discuss this with swords, sir,” I said to Lancelot’s retreating back. Mordred inhaled to speak, but the inner door of the chamber opened and out stepped the King, buckling his belt. Mordred puffed in surprise.

“Peace brother,” said Arthur. “We will see the Queen safely to the feast table and our eyes will not leave the fruits of your labor.”  A flicker of bright cloth moved in the open aperture behind him. He cinched his girdle with a casual tug and reached back to pull the door shut. “The boy may await us in the passage.”

Gouvernail stood frozen against the tapestry in the passageway. Mordred calmly reached out and took his burden from him, handing the bag to the King.

“Come Seneschal, let us leave the treasure in the King’s good hands,” he said, steering me away from the scene.

Coupnez dropped onto a little stool outside the door, glum no doubt that he would not be spoiled by the ladies. There was nothing to do but storm back down to the kitchens and shout at my staff.

“That was unexpected,” Mordred said thoughtfully, when we had progressed a little way down the hall.

“He waits until the jousting is done rather than meet me on the field,” I sputtered nonsensically, “knowing I cannot leave my duties.”

“If it’s a joust you want, I’ll give you sport,” Mordred said, walking at my elbow, his words as unaffected and mocking as ever.

“The man will rub his perfidy right in the King’s trusting face!”

“I think the King is not the tender innocent you take him for,” Mordred said. “No,” he mused, “Not a victim but a participant in the festivities?”

“Keep your nasty speculations to yourself.”

“Are you not happy, Seneschal? The king has the knowledge, but not the venom. Your Queen is safe. It seems Arthur loves his wife and his knight as well as everyone says.”

I punched him in his stupid face and drew my knife. He grinned at me, manic with his stupid death wish.

“Will you kill me this time, Seneschal?”

The corridor was a narrow place to battle. Mordred thumped me on the temple with the hilt of his blade and we grappled as my head rang and he broke free. I gave him a score across his calf and a new opening in his fine, feast day tunic, but the churl got in a lucky blow to the knee, catching my arm as the faithless knee buckled and twisting it tight behind me, pinned to his chest, knife at my throat and eyes glinting close.

He drew the moment out, staring, and then dragged me kicking into the darkness of an empty music chamber and pushed me to my knees.

“Do it then,” I gritted. Mordred laughed. His lips came down hard, pressing steady, then moving, sucking, licking, his rough shaven cheek grating against mine. His knife nicked the hollow of my throat and then pulled away. I heard it fall to the rushes. His laughter rumbled into my chest as he sucked at the small wound.

***

We patched each other’s injuries in Mordred’s chamber. The mood fell short of our usual amiable post battle doctoring.

“The Queen is not safe,” I said darkly, as he pasted a poultice over a slice at the crux of my elbow and bound it. “If she and Lancelot are accused, if Artus must acknowledge their connection before the court, he will disavow her to protect his own pride.” Mordred could make no rejoinder to this. His steady hands pulled the bandage tight and he drew his fingertips softly down my forearm.


End file.
